Between this summer course and work, I have no time to update, which I absolutely loathe. I keep wanting to write more, to dust off that pink typewriter (in a figurative sense since I’m too anal retentive about it to let it actually collect dust). Write. I want to write. I wonder if I’m meant to be a writer. What am I doing? I’ve never been exceptional at anything, I thought the one thing I was good at was this. What is a writer that doesn’t write? I’m nothing at all. I’m filled with uncertainty. I’m full of trepidation. I’m teetering on the edge of a curb, unsure to cross the street or go in the other direction.
My birthday is tomorrow. I feel the same, I look different. I miss my free time. My life is currently all about Human Bio. I want to learn French. I miss painting and sketching. I miss you, but most of the time I hate what you’ve turned into.
Last night I saw Toy Story 3. I cried twice. I wonder if I feel most vulnerable in a dark room full of strangers or if I can only understand people through a screen.
